


Don't Want To Be Anyone's Ghost

by bulletsandbutterflies (turningpages)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coma, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Reichenbach Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:23:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turningpages/pseuds/bulletsandbutterflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t feel the pain anymore, although he remembers feeling it acutely a few minutes ago (oh God, is he dead?). John places his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, in an act of assurance, but Sherlock doesn’t react to the touch at all. </p><p>That’s when John realizes there’s nothing he can do but watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: this is a WIP. Beware all ye who enter.
> 
> While chasing after a suspect, John is shot and falls into a coma. He has an out-of-body experience, and he watches as Sherlock and everyone else tries to deal with the possibility of his death. 
> 
> As memories of the past flash before his eyes, John soon realizes that he has to make the most difficult choice of his life.

_John. John! Can you hear me, John?_

John can hear him. Can hear him loud and clear. There’s a ringing in his ears, just like the time a bomb exploded a few hundred feet away from him as he tried to stitch up a soldier’s wound. But John can still hear him. Sherlock’s voice is tight with worry, and it almost sounds like he’s in the verge of tears. 

_John, keep your eyes open! Come on, John, please, open you eyes!_

John wants to. God, he wants to. He wants to stare into those stormy grey eyes (or was it blue? or green?) and tell Sherlock to calm the fuck down. But no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t

_You can’t leave me! Do you hear me? You can’t leave me now!_

No. John definitely does not want to leave Sherlock, even though every now and then he wished he could (most of the time this was only when Sherlock had insulted him to the point where he could not take it anymore, but more recently, if John was honest with himself, it’s also when he feels the urge fuck Sherlock into the mattress like he did that one stormy night).

_Please, John. Please, I love you._

John opens his eyes and blinks. The first thing he notices is the rain, the soft pat-pat-pat sound the water makes as the drops collide with his jacket. When he turns, he realizes that he’s standing next to his best friend (lover? partner?), who is now currently hunching over his bleeding body.

Oh, that’s right. He was shot.

He doesn’t feel the pain anymore, although he remembers feeling it acutely a few minutes ago (oh God, is he dead?). John places his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, in an act of assurance, but Sherlock doesn’t react to the touch at all. That’s when John realises there’s nothing he can do but watch.

So John just watches as Lestrade runs towards them, the sound of an ambulance blaring in the distance; as two medics load him – well, his body – into a stretcher and whisk him away; as Lestrade pulls a hysterical Sherlock away from the ambulance (“no, Sherlock, you’re not family, you can’t ride with him); as Sherlock flings off the orange blanket Lestrade drapes over his shoulders (“Damn it, Lestrade, I’m not in shock!”); and then as Lestrade leads Sherlock to the police car, both them now drenched by the rain.

Not too keen on the idea of being alone, John decides to follow, slipping in next to Sherlock in the back seat of the car.

Inside, John focuses on his best friend (lover? partner?). Sherlock is a mess. Water is dripping from his curls, which stuck at every angle, and if John were alive (oh God, please let him be alive), he would probably make fun of how mucky Sherlock’s hair looked. His skin is so pale – well, paler than usual – that he seems to be glowing in the dark. He’s also shivering, and Lestrade must’ve noticed this because he throws yet another orange blanket at him. When he sees that Sherlock is just staring at the piece of cloth like it’s the most offensive thing he’s ever seen, Lestrade says, “John doesn’t need you dying of hypothermia when he’s not here to save you.” This seems to do the trick because Sherlock sluggishly unfolds the blanket and wraps it around himself. John wishes he could wrap Sherlock in his arms to keep him warm.

With every minute that goes by, Sherlock becomes more agitated. He’s wringing the blanket in his hands, biting his lips constantly, and then finally, he snarls, “Honestly, Lestrade, can’t you go any faster?”

“If you haven’t noticed, _Einstein_ , it’s raining,” Lestrade replies gruffly. “I know you want to be with John as soon as possible, but we don’t need another accident.”

It’s clear from Lestrade’s tone that there’s no room for arguments. Sherlock slumps back in his seat, looking defeated. For a while, there’s only silence. And then, in a small voice, Sherlock says, “It’s my fault.”

Lestrade sighs. “It’s not.”

“I didn’t wait when you told me to.”

“Well, you’ve never listened to what I tell you to do,” Lestrade offers, and John knows it’s Lestrade way of trying to lift Sherlock’s mood. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything in return, and John finds himself saying, “It’s not your fault.” They can’t hear him, and he grabs his hair in his fists in frustration.

“They’re taking him to Bart’s,” Lestrade informs both of them, and Sherlock nods weakly. “Sherlock, do you think he did it on purpose?”

“What?” 

“Get himself shot.”

“That’s the most inane thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth,” Sherlock snaps, making John wince. “And trust me, Lestrade, you can be very obtuse.” 

“Look, hear me out,” Lestrade starts, and Sherlock scoffs but doesn’t say anything. “Ever since the accident, John was never really the same. Like, there’s something missing in him. I can see it from his eyes. What if he’s just tired of it all? What if he actually wants to join them up there or whatever?”

For a while, there’s just silence, and John watches as Sherlock tries to process this all. It’s not true, what Lestrade had said, and John so desperately wanted to tell Sherlock this. Sure, he misses Hamish and Mary - sometimes more than he could bear. But he would never leave Sherlock willingly. _Never_.

“No,” Sherlock says softly, as if he read John’s mind. “No, John wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t leave me.

“How old was he again?” Lestrade asks as the car comes to a red light. He stops the car and twists his body to the side to look at Sherlock. “When he died.”

“Five.”

“I heard from John the boy liked you.” 

Sherlock’s face softens a fraction. “He did.”

“Must’ve been a surprise coming home to find John with a kid and all.”

“It was.”

 

***

 

John met Mary Morstan almost a year after Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s. Right after the funeral, John had packed away his things and moved out of the flat. He couldn’t stand living there, no matter how much he cared for Mrs. Hudson. There were just too many memories. Memories that John wanted to bury. 

The first few weeks he slept on Harry’s couch but because his back started to hurt, he rented a small flat in St. Albans and managed to get a job in the local hospital. Life there was dreary, nothing like the life he had with Sherlock – diagnosing patients with the common cold was not exactly as exciting as running down the streets of London chasing after criminals and murderers. But John adjusted, and besides dreary was what he wanted. Dreary goes against everything he felt with Sherlock, and since he wanted to forget Sherlock, dreariness was welcomed.

The first time he met Mary was at the hospital cafeteria. She was struggling to balance the tray of food in her hands while holding on to her file, and so John – ever the gentleman – offered to help. In return for his act of chivalry, she had insisted on buying him a cup of coffee. Not one to turn down free coffee, John acquiesced. 

One cup of free coffee turned into dinner, and dinner turned into a couple of dates every now and then. Soon enough, Mary became a steady presence in his life, and it didn’t take long for John to realize that he loved her. Maybe not the same way he loved Sherlock, but he loved her nonetheless. Mary was sweet and caring, and she didn’t mind the fact that John was still haunted by Sherlock’s ghost. Less than a year after they met, they were married. A year later, Mary died giving birth to Hamish.

Three years after that, right on Hamish’s third birthday, John found a tired and apologetic Sherlock standing in the kitchen of his new house. 

 

***

 

John is slumped against the wall of the waiting room across a worried Sherlock. He looks better now, especially since Lestrade had made sure that he changed into something dry as soon as they had reached the hospital. John doesn’t know where Lestrade had gotten the clothes, but they clearly weren’t found in Sherlock’s closet. The jeans are too short on Sherlock’s long legs (and Christ, when was the last time John saw Sherlock in jeans?) and the sleeves of his shirt are too long.

In one of St Bart’s operating rooms, John’s body is being butchered, poked and prodded. The bullet would be pulled out from his abdomen (and to think the scar on his shoulder was enough), and the surgeons would now be fighting to replace the blood John had bled out all over the asphalt. 

John feels useless, just sitting doing nothing as somewhere in the building his body struggles to survive. But he has to accept the fact that he is stuck. All he’s able to do is wait. 

Lestrade walks in, carrying two cups of coffee. He hands one to Sherlock, who takes it in his hands, his long fingers wrapping around the Styrofoam, but just stares down at it.

“You better drink it,” Lestrade says after taking a sip of his own. “It was really cold out, and you need to warm up.”

Sherlock obliges, moving methodically like a robot. He hasn’t said anything since Lestrade asked about Hamish, and John ached to hear his voice.

“He’s going to be fine,” Lestrade tries, patting Sherlock’s back. “John’s a soldier. He’s stronger than both of us combined.”

Sherlock nods slowly, but stays silent. John walks over to him and kneels, stroking Sherlock’s hair. 

“I’m here,” he says softly. “Sherlock, I’m still here.”

Sherlock doesn’t stir. He can’t feel John’s hands, can’t hear John’s voice. 

“He should be out of surgery soon,” Lestrade declares, and John is beginning to wonder if Lestrade is trying to convince Sherlock or himself. “You’ll see. He’ll be fine.”

“He can’t die, Lestrade,” Sherlock says suddenly. His voice is so low and soft that John wondered if he had imagined hearing Sherlock speak. Lestrade looks up from his coffee cup, looking slightly shocked, but Sherlock is staring down at his feet. He looks so small suddenly, so vulnerable. It makes John’s heart break. “John can’t die. I-I wouldn’t know what to do without him.”

“He won’t, mate,” Lestrade reassures him, but the troubled look on his face tells John that he doesn’t fully believe what he just said.


	2. Chapter 2

Hamish did like Sherlock. He used to waddle around after him while Sherlock was busy conducting experiments, sometimes clinging on to his legs (which more than often annoyed Sherlock). He laughed when Sherlock played the violin and absolutely loved it when Sherlock let him play with the skull (at first John was hesitant to allow his only son growing up with such morbid toys, but later decided that if Hamish was going to grow up with Sherlock, he was going to see pretty morbid things anyways). Hamish, not unlike John, became attached to Sherlock very quickly. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, took a while to get used to Hamish’s presence. It was as if Hamish was a reminder to Sherlock of the life John had without him, and it seemed as if Sherlock struggled to accept that John _had_ a life without him. He regarded Hamish with intrigue but also uncertainty, and kept his distance when he could. Gradually, however, John could see how Sherlock started to feel more at ease with Hamish. After a few months, Sherlock sometimes even took the responsibility of taking Hamish to school when John was called in for his locum job in St. Bart’s (Sherlock was against John taking another job – he believed that John’s one and only job was to run around after him – but it was one of the conditions John had given Sherlock when he agreed to move back into 221B). 

Hamish simply adored Mrs. Hudson, who might not be their housekeeper but certainly did not mind being a babysitter. When Sherlock and John were out chasing after criminals, she’d be the one taking care of Hamish. Most afternoons, she’d bring him treats she made or bought in the teashops nearby – Hamish’s favourite was this pastry filled a thick jam topped with clotted cream that only this one particular shop a few streets away made. He also grew a liking to both Lestrade and Mycroft, playing with them (or in Mycroft’s case, trying to play with him) whenever they come around. During holidays and Hamish’s birthday, they were always invited around. Mycroft always gave Hamish the most expensive gifts (John was afraid his son would grow up spoiled), and Lestrade would occasionally bring him items from the police station (Hamish was probably the youngest person to possess handcuffs). 

By the time Hamish was four, John had made Sherlock his guardian. John thought that if anything happened to him, he wanted Sherlock to be the one to take care of Hamish. It was obvious that Hamish loved Sherlock, and even more evident that Sherlock cared for Hamish. 

What John didn’t know at the time was that he didn’t have to worry about leaving Hamish behind if he died. 

Hamish was going to leave him first.

 

***

 

When a surgeon walks into the waiting room, still wearing his operating scrubs, John could feel everybody – meaning Sherlock, Lestrade, and a couple of people whose poor relative or friend was unlucky enough to be o the operating table that same night – tensing up. He calls out John’s name, and both Sherlock and Lestrade immediately stands up. The surgeon comes up to them with a grim smile. Blood splatters make his green scrubs darker here and there, and John has to hold on a chair when it registers that the blood is his. Sherlock also looks a shade paler as he takes in the amount of blood.

The surgeon, who introduces himself as Dr. Kingston, tells them the details of John’s condition using medical jargon that would normally excite John. It was the one thing that John sometimes felt he had over Sherlock, the ability to understand medical terms that Sherlock sometimes did not. But right now, John just wants to know if he’s still alive.

“It was a hard and long battle,” Kingston finishes, and John swears he can see Sherlock and Lestrade holding on to their breaths, hear them praying silently to whoever and whatever is listening, “but he’s a strong chap, and he made it off the table. He’s currently recovering in the ICU.”

Sherlocks lets out a sound, between a sob and a whimper. Lestrade heaves out the biggest sigh.

“But,” the surgeon started uneasily, making Sherlock tense up.

“But what?” Sherlock demanded, and John knows it’s taking every ounce of Sherlock’s willpower not to shake the poor doctor.

“He’s slipped into a coma, and we’re not sure when he’ll wake up,” Kingston explains. “If he does wake up, we don’t know what the effects will be to his body, especially to his brain.”

Hearing this, Sherlock has slumped back to his seat, dropping his head into his hands. Lestrade takes over, asking Dr. Kingston more detailed questions about John’s current situation. John doesn’t listen. He just watches Sherlock. 

“Can I see him?” Sherlock asks when the surgeon is done explaining.

“I’m afraid only family members are allowed in the ICU,” Kingston replies, looking at Sherlock sympathetically. “Are you a family member?”

“I’m his _partner_!” Sherlock snarls. 

“You’re his husband?” 

“Well, no,” Sherlock starts, brows furrowed, “but-“

“Then, I’m sorry but you can’t visit him,” Kingston interrupts as he starts to walk out the waiting room. “I apologize, I wish I could be of further help, but I have another surgery to attend.”

“I have to be there,” Sherlock tells Lestrade quickly. “I need to be with John. I need to see him.”

“Yeah, I understand, Sherlock,” Lestrade shrugs, “but you heard the good doctor. Only family members are allowed. Maybe you can ask Harry to talk to the nurses. I’m sure she’ll let you in.”

“Doubt it,” Sherlock mutters, pulling out his phone. “She’ll probably blame the current situation on me. And knowing how dependent she is on alcohol, chances are she’s going to show up drunk.”

_I need your help – SH_

_It’s always good to hear you admit how much you need me. – MH_

_John was shot. He’s in the ICU. They won’t let me in. – SH_

_ICUs are for family members only, Sherlock. – MH_

_Why do you think I’m talking to you right now? – SH_

_If I help you with this, you will solve one government case. – MH_

_Fine. Anything. – SH_

_Give me five minutes. – MH_

 

***

 

“Come home with me,” Sherlock said, the day John found him wet and sorry in his kitchen four years ago. It had been raining lightly since early morning (Hamish amused himself by splashing the puddles as he and John walked to the ice cream parlour), and as the day progressed, the rain came pouring harder. It was obvious that Sherlock hadn’t bothered to use an umbrella, and pretty soon a puddle was forming around him.

When John had arrived home, Hamish asleep in his arms, he had set his son down on his bed before deciding that he desperately needed a cup of tea. During the party, he had watched as Hamish played detective with his friends, and it made him miss Sherlock terribly, something he hadn’t felt for a long time. Walking into the kitchen, he came face to face with the ghost of the past he had for almost five years tried so hard to bury. 

His first reaction was to punch Sherlock, which he did.

His next reaction was to kiss Sherlock, which he didn’t do.

After his anger had dissipated a little bit, John looked after Sherlock’s bleeding nose (not broken, although a part of him wished he had broke it) and ordered him to eat some leftover scones from Hamish’s birthday tea (John could see the outline of Sherlock’s ribs through his shirt, and no matter how furious he was, he couldn’t help but feel worried). While gingerly eating the pastry (John with some satisfaction listened to Sherlock wince every time he opened his mouth a bit too wide), Sherlock explained why he had to fake his own suicide and leave John all alone. 

When he was done, he said in a quiet voice, “Come home with me.”

John gaped at Sherlock incredulously, but Sherlock was staring down intently at an invisible spot on John’s kitchen floor. John couldn’t believe what he was hearing, that Sherlock just expected him to drop everything he had and come running back to Sherlock.

“This is home now, Sherlock,” John said firmly, and Sherlock had looked up at him, a mixture of surprise and hurt written all over his face. “For me, anyhow.”

“Baker Street is not the same without you,” Sherlock had started, still looking at John with those maddeningly beautiful eyes of his (and honestly, just looking at them made John want to take up Sherlock’s offer). Then, he looked away, and softly added, “I’m not the same without you.”

Hearing this, a little part of John had break, and just like that he found himself almost relenting. But a part of him was still mad, and he had let that part take over.

“Fuck you, Sherlock! You think just because you tell me how much you need me I’ll come running back to you?” John shouted, and Sherlock flinched like John had slapped him. “You left me for _five fucking years_! I watch you fall almost every night in my dreams! I wake up screaming your _fucking name_! Why’d you come back? I have a life here now. I’ve moved on!”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Hamish came waddling in.

“Dad,” he mumbled, one arm outstretched while he used his other hand to rub his eyes. John picked him up, kissing the top of his head.

“I’m sorry, did Daddy wake you up?” John asked, and Hamish nodded slowly. John uttered another apology, and then noticed how Sherlock was staring at Hamish.

“Sherlock, this is my son, Hamish,” John walked closer to where Sherlock was sitting. “Say hi, Hamish.”

“Hi,” Hamish said, stretching out his arms as if to take one of Sherlock’s curls in his hands. Sherlock looked taken aback and unsure of what to do, so John, pitying him, decided to pull Hamish away and bring him back to bed.

“Mycroft told me you were married,” Sherlock said softly when he came back, eyes glazed over like he was thinking about something. “He never mentioned you had a child.”

“Mary died a few days after he was born,” John explained, and his heart twinged at the memory. “Complications while giving birth.”

“He looks like you.”

John wanted to say something in return, but he could only shrug. They stayed there in silence for a while, careful not to look at each other, until Sherlock stood up, brushing the crumbs of his shirt.

“I better go,” he said, grabbing his coat and putting it on.

“It’s still raining like mad out there, Sherlock,” John sighed. “Stay the night. There’s a guest room upstairs.”

“I-I can’t stay here,” Sherlock shook his head. “Not when you have clearly pushed me out of your life.”

“ _Christ_ , Sherlock, it’s not like that,” John ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, the last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to go. “I just…I need time to think. I haven’t seen you in half a decade, and you coming back just threw me off balance.”

“So, you’ll come back with me to Baker Street?” Sherlock regarded him hopefully, and the look of his face made John’s heart ache.

“I’ll think about it.”

Sherlock nodded and smiled a small smile. John wanted nothing more than to press his lips against his, but instead he cleared his throat and said, “Right, so I’ll show you the guest room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the positive reviews. The next chapter might not be posted for a while because of exam week looming soon (God help me) but please bear with me!

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story a few months ago, and I'm not sure whether it's worth pursuing or not. So I've decided that you all get to choose. If this first bit gets positive reviews, then I'll post the other parts soon.
> 
> Also, I put the rating as explicit because there _will be_ smut in the later parts of the story :)


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